100

I haven't blogged for a while, for a number of reasons maybe due to being busy at work, but maybe more to a spate of having difficulty with London life; one can always find a few moments to dash off some nonsense - I just haven't been able to rouse myself. Of course maybe I was nervous - this is my 100th post (which accounts for the pealing of church bells and parades you may have noticed around the country today) and perhaps I wanted to do something special.

I started to write this blog to talk about books, my oh-so-acute thoughts and reflections, but also about living in Britain. A few years ago I remember first actually feeling part of this country when I was listening to Radio 4's Just a Minute and thought 'Oh, brilliant, Clement Freud is on today.' For my American readers, Just a Minute is a panel show where celebrity folk have 60 seconds to speak on a subject without "hesitation, repetition or deviation" and is as British as Marmite, binge drinking and horrific public transport.

Clement Freud was an institution as well. Grandson of Sigmund, brother of Lucian, Clement was an MP, broadcaster, trailblazing celebrity chef, writer and apparently as I listen to the eulogies on the radio - also famous at one point for a series of TV adverts for dog food with his bloodhound Henry. But I only knew him from Just a Minute, where his laconic, deadpan drawl would work nicely against Paul Merton's rapid-fire delivery or Ross Noble's Geordie surreal flights of fancy. I liked him because though he on the surface would be the more establishment figure on the show, coming from emigree royalty, being an MP and set against the young whipper-snappers comedians - he often was the most subversive.

He died whilst working at his desk, aged 84, which the writer in me thinks is how I would like to go. Of course, the pirate in me would like me to die from a bellyful of grapeshot whilst trying to board a frigate on the Spanish Main.